Damon's Doll (Billionaire Dark Obsession Book 1)

by Q. Zayne

  Table of Contents

  Teaser

  DAMON’S DOLL

  Copyright

  The Hook

  The Sky Lounge

  Damon’s Lair

  The Test

  Landing

  My Island

  Doll Face

  Lunch with the Master

  Nightmare

  Lesson 1

  Preview: Opening Rose

  About the Author

  Teaser

  THE DARK-HAIRED MAN raised his chin.

  A shiver went through her. He had lion eyes. Gold and brown, alert. His finely modeled nose and strong jaw suggested a lineage harking back to ancient Rome. She wished she had a sketchpad with her. The man stopped her breath.

  He rose and she tilted her head to keep looking into his compelling eyes.

  He extended his hand and grasped hers. “Welcome. I’m so glad you could come.” He spoke as though it were a social engagement.

  The doorman disappeared, leaving her alone in the private part of the lounge, next to a glass wall overlooking the Embarcadero and the bay.

  The stranger’s hand felt surprisingly good on hers. He released her, and her fingers tingled.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “No, you’re right on time.” He sounded gracious, though a trace of impatience came through his deep voice.

  Damn, he had a let’s-fuck voice. Her panties were in danger.

  He wasn’t what she expected at all. He wasn’t a prune man or disfigured. He was so hot he smoldered.

  How the hell did a man like that need to hire a woman?

  She swallowed. It must be a weird fetish, something extreme, something no one would do for love and maybe not for money, either.

  He rose and held a chair for her, smoothly beating a waiter to it. Tall, the man was tall, and well-built. He needed no special tailoring to look broad-shouldered in the fine European suit. He had enough beard to look virile and beautiful, instead of scruffy like so many unshaven guys.

  His fingers brushed her neck as she sat.

  Electricity shot through her.

  No. No, this could not be happening. She could not be attracted to this man who might be able to give her a million dollars. Pay her a million dollars. To become his doll.

  DAMON’S DOLL

  Billionaire Dark Obsession Duet 1

  by Q. Zayne

  To Tony, for helping me want to live.

  Q. Zayne—Quality high-heat alpha books with heart since 2015

  Popular books include The Submission Island series, The Billionaires Club, Truckers, Recluse, and Mister Beast Owns Beauty.

  Visit QZayneBooks.com to explore the author’s world, and check out the High-Heat Book Club. Members get first notice of free and bargain books, plus exclusive previews, and occasional multi-author giveaways.

  Copyright

  Do not post this book on any site.

  Copyright ©2019 Hughes Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author except for brief excerpts in a review. Cover photo ©Deposit Photos and photographers, all rights reserved. The use of these photos doesn’t suggest endorsement by the photographers nor the models, nor does it imply anything about the models.

  Electronic book publication: August 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses, entities, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All people and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. This work is for mature readers 18+.

  The Hook

  LIVING DOLL.

  Healthy young woman sought for creative body modification project

  and intensive training.

  Will you become my ideal companion for one million dollars?

  The classified ad’s bold top lines stood out from offers for eggs, sperm, surrogate mothers, and experimental subjects. One million dollars. That would solve everything. Mandy was looking for a job again. She was qualified to be a barista along with other creative types in San Francisco.

  Tilting back her chair at the plastic table that served as her desk in the tiny kitchen, she couldn’t help picturing a house of her own, traveling the world, a sense of freedom like rising with wings.

  She’d sold blood, and she’d sold her hair as a freshman, a sacrifice that made her cry. She wasn’t desperate enough to sacrifice a kidney or other organ, but she’d had queasy thoughts about it. With only one kidney, if she was captured by organ harvesters when she finally got to travel, she’d be sure to die. Things got that grim sometimes in her mind.

  The ad had to be a joke. Who would be offering a million bucks to entice someone to undergo body modifications? What did the companionship consist of? What did he want? It had to be a man.

  Was the project cosmetic surgery like the look-alike fashion-doll people, or was it SM or modern ‘tribal’ stuff? She accompanied Ken on a photo shoot of people devoted to scarification, piercings, tattooing, flesh stretching, severe corseting, and things with names she didn’t know. Some people had split tongues, split cocks, elongated clits, labia that laced shut with sutures.

  Between helping Ken set up his shots, she looked at magazines in the piercing shop. One of them profiled a guy who drilled a hole in his skull. It was a real thing, auto-trepanation. Her stomach flipped.

  Maybe this advertiser just wanted big jugs, puffy lips, a jutting butt—or a resemblance to some past flame who gave him a raging hard-on.

  She glanced across her studio at the mirror by the door. Not at her best today, her hair hung lank, but she had the bone structure of her Swedish ancestors. Her strong cheekbones, small nose, and full lips fit the beauty template that allowed her to score modeling jobs in her teens.

  What would it be like to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself? To walk into your high school reunion and no one would guess you were you? It fit a movie trope, to become so transformed you could take revenge on anyone who ever hurt you. You could get close to them and do them raw. They wouldn’t have a clue until you told them why they were going to suffer.

  She shook her hair back and looked out at the waves. That slice of the Pacific visible with her chair angled right was the one grace of her tiny, over-priced studio.

  Standing, she stretched her back. She needed exercise. Financial stress was getting to her. That must be what triggered the dark fantasies.

  What would the companionship part be like, spending time with a stranger with that kind of bucks? Had to be a billionaire or better. She’d been reading ads long enough to know ‘companion’ pretty much meant sex provider. She’d never considered prostitution, but doing it with only one guy wasn’t so different from being married or a mistress. The pay couldn’t be beat. He might be really old or ugly, or something.

  Growing up with medical books, true crime, and horror had its advantages. Romances with wounded heroes or monsters didn’t make her flinch. Unless the so-called hero was an abusive asshole. That wasn’t flinching, that was discernment.

  Wow. What would she endure for a million dollars? She’d never have to wait on another rude jerk again.

  If the offer was legit. Could be some psycho-killer seeking his next victim. This was California. Raping and killing women was a state sport, on-campus and off-campus.

  If it was for real, though….

  She tapped her stylus on the edge of her art pad, completely derailed from her plans. Making a tedious zero-imagination logo held even less charm than usual. A lot of caffeine, some ‘
diet’ pills from another student, and putting in thirteen-hour days seven days a week helped her scrape rent together. The gigs paid too little for the time and skill required, but she needed the money.

  Unless. It was crazy. Even if the offer was for real, the guy had to be nuts.

  The competition would be ridiculous.

  She scrolled to read the rest of the ad on her tablet.

  Send recent photo and letter of interest. This is a long-term position.

  Serious inquiries only. Only the chosen one will be notified.

  Anyone serious about applying should jump on it before the guy’s in-box got mobbed. The ad probably wasn’t from a random loser—no one cheap would buy that many words for a classified. Criminals trolled the free bulletin boards. She was pretty sure you had to present identification for an ad in one of San Francisco’s biggest newspapers.

  The chosen one. Maybe it was a cult.

  Or maybe he was just pretentious. Someone who could afford a million bucks to have a stranger fulfill his fantasy almost had to be pretentious. Maybe it was a new so-called reality TV show. The winner probably had to lose all privacy and be filmed in supposedly candid staged scenes.

  She supposed she could live with that.

  Without having decided to do it, she opened her pic file and uploaded the best one, a bikini shot with a bright smile and her hair blowing back from her face. Her friend Ken, who called himself a bartender-slash-photographer, took it. It made her look like a successful model, a girl who could become some man’s modified dream woman.

  She whipped out a note to go with it, not stopping to think, because thinking too much would not help.

  Hi,

  I’m Mandy. I hope I’m your chosen one. I’m healthy and eager to be remade to your specifications. At present, I’m a virgin canvas, in every sense, with all original parts and no mods except for pierced ears.

  Love,

  Me

  She hit send and blushed. Maybe it was too cheeky. She figured he wanted someone eager and compliant, and the virgin thing might be a hook. She was one, might as well play that card. She bopped her forehead with her palm and opened a new email. She had another card to play.

  PS: I just turned nineteen!

  Youth. If he was an old fuck, her age might bump her to the head of the line.

  Her hand shook and she put down the tablet to keep it safe. The floor was tile and replacing electronics was not in the budget.

  What had she done? Well, it was done, and the odds of being contacted were probably equal to the odds of aliens landing on the fire escape this week, so she might as well forget about it.

  Still, she felt better for applying, and she hummed while washing the dishes.

  Instead of looking at more uninspiring help wanted ads or the less-inspiring logo project, she went out for a run.

  Things would get better, she could feel it.

  All the attention she got as she ran down the beach bolstered her confidence. Someone had to be chosen, why not her?

  She veered around a driftwood windbreak. Gulls burst into flight ahead of her, like a wedding train billowing in reverse. Their hoarse voices and uneven, soaring flight made her smile. They were scavengers and skillful beggars. They made flying look effortless, even though they were oddly clumsy.

  Fog rose around her. In moments, Ocean Beach went from a long expanse lit by pale autumn sunlight to a short stretch as unsettling as Jack the Ripper’s hunting grounds.

  She envisioned the old Sutro mansion on the cliff in the eighteen hundreds, when its owner collected artifacts from ancient Egypt. She’d visited mummies and statues from his collection at the university.

  Sometimes, it seemed things happened for a reason. Classifieds weren’t a good source for jobs, but she checked them compulsively. More to give herself credit for looking than out of any expectation of results. Rare, flexible gigs helped her cover the insanely high rent. Serving espresso part-time was a draining enough occupation on top of a full-time course load, but it wasn’t enough. Doing as many gigs as she could remain awake to complete every week had her at her limits

  She kicked at the sand and looped back past the driftwood, speeding up for the final stretch. Maybe the guy who drilled a hole in his skull had something. If she was a great deal more stupid, she’d be a better fit for this economy. Instead, she wanted time each day to dream, and to think. Hence, her battle against sleep.

  The more time she could spend awake, the longer she could survive. Perhaps long enough to finish her impractical degree without having to live with eight or more roommates. That thought made her want to sleep forever. She wouldn’t survive it. Without some peace and privacy, she’d go mad.

  She swallowed and wound a strand of hair around her throat. She tightened it and stuck out her tongue, imagining the victims of public executions from long ago. Taking a long breath, she examined the ends of her hair. Glossy, no split ends. She bit down on it. Her hair tasted neutral, like clean fingernails.

  Why not submit to body modifications for money? The mystery man might say yes, and she’d say yes, and fuck, a million dollars. No more money problems. No more studio full of other people’s cooking smells, and the sound of the next-door toilet and toddler. No more ignoring the fire escape to see the waves. Freedom. Her fingers wriggled, longing to hold stacks of money, to tear off the bands and throw big bills in the air.

  Nah. Things like that didn’t happen. But what if it did?

  She’d buy a boat, a big live-aboard, and sail the world.

  She cooled down on the way back to the apartment, ducking into the supermarket to lose a guy in a hoodie who changed directions to follow her.

  Her heart sped as she reached her building and raced up the stairs to her studio.

  First thing, she turned on her tablet and checked her email. Nothing. The Living Doll guy probably hadn’t seen her message. Her application was no doubt buried in hundreds of them.

  To get her mind off of hoping, she took a quick shower and set to making a salad in the kitchenette. Washing spinach and grape tomatoes took her back to her modeling days. Good thing she’d opted to stay in shape. The bikini shot was recent.

  Her email dinged. Her mouth went dry. It couldn’t be him already. Maybe it was an auto-responder making its way through the sea of applications—or the guy about the logo.

  Her fingers slipped on the tablet. She opened the email. Fuck, oh fuck.

  Meet me at the Sky Lounge for your audition at 8 pm sharp.

  Oh, no. What the hell was she going to wear?

  He’d summoned her to a bar with a glorious view of the bay in one of the top hotels—he was smart. He’d picked a confidence-inspiring meeting place. Maybe there were rich psycho-killers who never got caught, but usually murderers were far lower on the food chain.

  Her heart raced as she rushed to her closet. She had to wow him.

  The Sky Lounge

  IN THE UNDERGROUND station, she kept checking the time on the digital signs. At least it was past rush hour, and she left early. A train stopped and she rushed into it. By habit, she evaded the press of men and found the least crowded part of the car. She felt absurd taking the underground in her interview clothes, but other women did it all the time, many of them dressing that way five days or more a week.

  At the last station downtown, she bustled up the stairs into the twilight. Her skirt clung to her thighs and her stockings swished. Rushing along the sidewalk past a piss-reeking passed-out man, panhandlers, and tourists, put her through the usual emotional gauntlet of sadness and aggravation. Over it all, the sense of being crowded and not at home drove home why she needed to score this job. She didn’t belong in a rat warren, crammed into smelly proximity with strangers. She wanted out.

  Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin and entered the palatial hotel. Good thing she’d gone all out with the outfit.

  As she rode to the lounge in the glass elevator, she shut her eyes and envisioned freedom. In the darkness, she saw herself
on her own boat, traveling to see the world. She would do it. All she had to do was wow the man who needed a woman to become—what he wanted her to be. I’ve got your number, mister, she told herself to bolster her confidence. Whatever else you are, you aren’t comfortable with women. Snap, as Ken would say.

  In the entry of the Sky Lounge, she rubbed her palms against her skirt. The outfit was a whipped cream chiffon wrap blouse with a black pencil skirt. She wore her hair in a long braid over one shoulder, playing up her youth in contrast to the sophisticated clothing that hugged her figure. She’d sworn off heels more than a year ago when she left modeling, but for this, she wore the killer spikes. She knew what they did for her legs and ass.

  The uniformed man at the door blinked at her.

  “I’m looking for a man. I mean, I’m meeting someone.” She rolled her eyes. This was so damned awkward.

  “Right this way, please.”

  Good. Her instincts had been correct. Naturally, a wealthy man would tip off the doorman or whatever you called the overdressed guy who did the greeting thing.

  She concentrated on walking well. A few heads swiveled.

  A man at the end of the room raised his chin.

  A shiver went through her. He had lion eyes. Gold and brown, alert. His finely modeled nose and strong jaw suggested a lineage harking back to ancient Rome. She wished she had a sketchbook with her. The man stopped her breath.

  He rose, revealing a tall, strong physique in an exquisite European suit. The fabric appeared black and blue in a subtle play of color. It hugged his muscular shoulder and accentuated his firm waist and narrow hips.

  Mandy tilted her head back to keep looking into his mesmerizing eyes.

  He extended his hand and grasped hers. “Welcome. I’m so glad you could come.” He spoke as though it were a social engagement.

  The doorman disappeared, leaving her alone in the most private part of the lounge, next to a glass wall overlooking the Embarcadero and the bay.